


All This Shit is Weird

by citizenblue



Series: In Death, Solace [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citizenblue/pseuds/citizenblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Pentaghast finds Inquisitor Adaar to be completely and absolutely infuriating, her opposite in so many ways.</p><p>And yet, though she will never admit it (certainly not to the dwarf), she cannot help but love her. She would not have altered a single moment.</p><p>Damn. All this shit is fucking weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chariot

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for... well, everything Dragon Age, I guess. Particularly the Trespasser DLC.
> 
> This piece is meant to be a bridge between "Dreamers in the Fade" and my next piece "The Lay of First-Thaw." It can be read as a standalone, but it would probably make a little more sense if read as a sequel.
> 
> But that's enough from me. Enjoy!

****EXALTED PLAINS** **

The Iron Bull straps his axe back into place before stretching his arms out wide and throwing a wet arm around Dorian's shoulder (leaving him, of course, thoroughly and utterly disgusted); “Tell him, Seeker.”

“This is not a discussion I want to have here, ” Cassandra says and the muscles in her neck tense and she wonders if it would be at all unseemly to run back to the nearest outpost.

“Come on. He needs proof.”

“Oh, leave her alone, you brute.” Dorian lets out an exasperated sigh. “You're a sweaty oversized neanderthal with an eye only for conquest. I don''t need proof of anything else.”

Cassandra felt her neck relax. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“But you have first-hand experience! I mean, look at you. All doe-eyed and crap.”

The Inquisitor, meanwhile, has taken to climbing impossible cliffs and crumbling bridges. Cassandra watches from below as Adaar scales the rock. She flushes:

“The stamina _is…_ impressive.”

The Iron Bull claps Dorian on the back. “From the Seeker's mouth herself!”

She rolls her eyes, noticing, only barely, the way Adaar crash-lands back onto the ground, her prize (a single one of those damn shards) in hand. She notices, too, the way Adaar attempts to hold four fingers up for the Iron Bull to see, silently mouthing words that look suspiciously like ' _last night'…_

She seethes at the sight. “And you'll get _nothing_ later.”

The Iron Bull whoops.

A lie, of course. They return to Skyhold, and Adaar is like a dog as she follows the Seeker back to the loft above the forge. Adaar mutters. Then mutters again. And again. With exasperation, Cassandra sighs. Smiles, even. Laughs, even.

They fall together.

 

**SKYHOLD**

The events of Caer Oswin burn through her skull, and Cassandra's stomach twists and turns as she listens for Adaar's heavy footsteps. “We need to talk.”

“This seems ominous.”

“This tome has passed from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, since the time of the old Inquisition. And now it falls to me.” The guilt. Almost unbearable. She wrings her fingers together as she looks down at the book the late Lord Seeker had given her. “You deserve to know.”

Adaar frowns. “Are you all right?”

“I… This is… about the Rite,” she says, and she drowns her words with details. History. Facts. “As a Seeker, I looked into… abuses. Mages made Tranquil as punishment. What finally began the mage rebellion was a discovery the Rite of Tranquility could be reversed. The Lord Seeker at the time covered it up. Harshly. There were deaths. It was dangerous knowledge. The shock of its discovery in addition to what happened in Kirkwall… But it appears we've _always_ known how to reverse the Rite. From the beginning.”

Adaar speaks slowly; “I see.”

And Cassandra… The guilt gnaws through her gut, and the admission is rough and sharp and coarse as it leaves her throat; “We… created the Rite of Tranquility.” The words hang in the air between them. “I told you of my vigil – the months I spent emptying myself of emotion? I was made Tranquil and did not even know. Then the vigil summoned a spirit of faith to touch my mind. That broke Tranquility. And gave me my abilities. The Seekers did not share that secret. Not with me, not with the Chantry. Not even with…” Cassandra glances briefly at Adaar, who has remained surprisingly silent. The Seekers. It has been everything she has every known. Everything she has ever been. And now, it is the one thing that… “There's more. Lucius was not wrong about the Order. I thought to rebuild the Seekers once victory was ours. Now I'm not certain it deserves to be rebuilt.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you so shaken.” Adaar, now sitting in a chair, shifts closer. She knows to do this now. Knows how. Knows when.

But Cassandra herself cannot bear it. She stands. Pulls away. Moves towards the small window and distracts her eyes with the bustle of the courtyard. “I do not think the Seekers have been doing the Maker's work. Not truly. Perhaps we believed it, once. The original Inquisition came to be during a terrible time. But now? We harbored secrets and let them fester. We acted to survive, but not to serve.” She feels Adaar by her side. “We are… I am responsible for…”

“Stop it,” she says. “Just stop it.”

“But if the Seekers had not created...”

“It doesn't matter. What's done is done.” Adaar broaches the topic carefully, voices the unspoken words that had, most likely, begun to suffocate them. “You said there may be… a cure.”

“There is a possibility. But there is still much research to be done. If we are to do this, it must be done properly and--”

“--This,” Adaar says, and she gestures towards herself, her large arms a little awkward. A little lame. “This is all I have ever known. To be different… I can't conceive of it. I don't know if I would be the same.” She grabs Cassandra by the cheek. Forces her to meet her eyes. “Do you want me to…?”

“ _What_? I… No. If you want it, then yes. But I would not change you. You must know.”

“Really? You could fix me. I could be everything you wanted.”

“I want _you_ ,” the Seeker says, “and there is nothing to fix. I truly meant what I said. I would not change you.”

 

**EMPRISE DU LION**

The ancient bridge towers above them. Adaar looks up. Prods Cassandra between the ribs, through the plates of her armor:

“Cass, _look_.”

“What is it now?”

“It's _me_.”

“That is a statue. A Tevinter statue. It is not you.”

“But look: the horns--”

“--are similar. Yes. I can see.”

Adaar allows a cheeky smile to touch her lips, and for a moment, Cassandra wonders if the Vashoth had meticulously planned the entire conversation; “And wouldn't you say there are… other similarities?”

The Iron Bull guffawed; “Ha!”

“Oh this is fun!” Sera says. “You gonna tell us now? About your thing and her thing? Does she get glowy between the sheets? I have _so_ many questions.”

“She's blushing again,” the Iron Bull exclaims, much to Adaar's insufferable delight.

Cassandra makes an obligatory disgusted noise. Glares at Adaar. Tries not to smile. “I suppose you all believe you could kill Corypheus with only wit.”

“Better than this elfy magic shite,” Sera says, and she shivers with the thought.

 

**TEMPLE OF MYTHAL**

Elfy magic shite indeed.

Cassandra watches Adaar face down the Well of Sorrows, and her suggestion is far from honorable; “If it is truly between you and her...” Cassandra swallows. “Let her take the risk.”

“If anyone is to use the Well, it will be me,” Adaar says as the witch narrows her eyes.

Cassandra pulls Adaar aside and it is public and uncharacteristic and again less than honorable; it is most definitely not honorable, not professional, to convince the Inquisitor to pawn responsibility off to this witch from the wilds.

“You do not have to do this,” she says

“I do, and I will.”

Her anger boils, tinged with the salt of fear. “Maker forbid, if you are only doing because it is new or interesting or…”

Adaar quirks a brow ( _of course, she finds this amusing_ ). “I'm drinking from a puddle. That's hardly exciting.”

“Adaar…”

She sighs. Serious then. “I intend to prove that I can keep my promises.”

“Find some other way.”

But Adaar does not relent “I made a promise--”

“--to the Warden.” Cassandra takes note of the strangeness in the situation. How the tables have turned. “ _Now_ you choose to be chivalrous.” At least: “Just… be careful.”

“I'll be fine,” Adaar says, but the words are empty. Meaningless.

She wades into the pool. Cups the water. Cups the liquid whispers. She drinks.

Falls to her knees.

Consumed by the Well. Bound.

For the first time, the Seeker wonders. Doubts. She does not know if the Inquisitor will stand and she does not know if she will again reign triumphant and she does not know if Adaar will _live_ ; her dwindling faith burns through the lining of her stomach. She holds the Vashoth's head in her arms. She ponders, for a moment, if they might have ever met had the sky not been torn asunder, if she had never become branded with the mark. She would not choose to follow any other, but this… this has made her selfish and she wishes she _could_ follow any other.

“Maker, _please._ Don't let it end this way.”

Adaar opens her eyes, and Cassandra releases the air from her lungs as though she has won yet another impossible gamble.

“Careful,” Adaar says. “People are going to get ideas.”

Cassandra can only scoff, chuckle until Corypheus, filled with a childish and nostalgic rage, howls upon realizing his defeat. Adaar pulls them through the Eluvian, ushering them all back to the safe confines of Skyhold.

Cassandra shoves Adaar; “Never do that again,” she says, feigning anger when she is anything but.

Morrigan nearly gags at the display. Almost as bad as the Bard and the Warden.

She pretends to disapprove.

 

**SKYHOLD**

From Skyhold's battlements, Cassandra can see all. The courtyard. The way Sutherland saunters proudly into the Herald's Rest. The way Blackwall ( _no, not Blackwall – Rainier_ ) clings to the shadows like a rat. She can catch, even, a small glimpse of the gardens.

She does not need to look to know Adaar has joined her side.

She scowls.“She looks at you as though you are meat.”

“Who? Sera?” Adaar says, a smirk on our lips.

Cassandra narrows her eyes. Remains silent.

“Our dear ambassador?” she continues. “I do recall her enjoying my grand height...”

“The _witch_.” The words burst from Cassandra's lips. “She does not know her place.”

“I think she's trying to get a rise out of you.”

“No, that is what _you_ do.” She scowls again, intruded upon, once more, by the thought of Morrigan's eyes running over Adaar's body… _Ugh_. “She craves the knowledge you now carry. It is infuriating.”

“She wants to drink from _my_ well, then. Interesting.”

Cassandra attempts to suppress a smile, but already her arms have begun to relax. “I have half a mind to push you over the wall.”

“Don't do that.” She knows what to say. Always knows what to say. She has always been observant, after all. “I'd have to open a rift to cushion my fall. I'd rather not go back to the Fade. No dragons. It was kind of boring.”

She shakes her head as she kisses the Inquisitor, and when she pulls away she nearly enjoys the growl that escapes Adaar's lips. Enjoys the fact that she had been the one to pull the reaction out of the Vashoth.

“Not long ago this was impossible to imagine. You, the woman I love. Victory close at hand. The time has come to consider what will come next.” She chuckles to herself. “It is dull, I know.”

“I don't care what comes next. We'll be together.” _Simple, simple, simple. Just like that_.

Cassandra shakes her head; “And if I am named Divine?”

“I won't lose you to the Chantry.”

“You haven't lost me yet.”

 

**HISSING WASTES**

The campfire burns, smoke dancing into the clear night air. The glow of the flames illuminate the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor as they sit across from the other, eyes set. Determined.

“My horns are bigger,” the Iron Bull says.

“Only because they jut straight out. No finesse.”

“Mine are thicker, too.”

“ _No finesse_.”

The Iron Bull pulls the Tevinter mage down beside him, pulling him away from the bedroll. “Dorian likes it.”

“Leave me out of this, thank you,” the mage says, not at all willing to get between the two Vashoth.

The Seeker, arms cradling what little tinder she has managed to gather, narrows her eyes. She has caught, at the very least, the tail end of the asinine argument.

Adaar attempts to pull her own counterpart down in the same manner. “Cassandra…”

“ _No._ ”

“You should know they've been at this for hours,” Dorian says. “I've had to set up this entire camp myself. Absolutely dreadful. I don't think this sand's ever going to get out of my lungs.”

Cassandra only grunts, altogether unwilling to be sucked into the conversation.

The Iron Bull leans back, triumphant. “She just doesn't want to offend you, Inquisitor. My horns are just too majestic. More majestic than yours, of course.”

Cassandra does not know what spurs her, but the words, nearly furious, spill from her lips before she can stop them: “ _Now, wait a minute._ The Inquisitor has fine horns. They are...” She suddenly realizes what she has begun. The group. They're staring. She coughs. Blushes. “They are more symmetrical than yours.”

“She bites!” the Iron Bull says, laughing.

Cassandra drops the tinder, unceremoniously retreating into her tent without another word, and even in the dark, the flush spreading up her neck is beyond evident.

She buries her head in her hands, and she does not look up when Adaar slips in through the burlap flaps, joining her by her side.

“I do like your horns better,” Cassandra whispers, feeling utterly foolish.

“I know. Of course, I know. You made that clear the other night.”

“ _Ugh_.”

 

**SKYHOLD**

Adaar rips the noble's arm from Cassandra's waist, twisting the limb with the same hand that had felled Corypheus.

She snarls as she brought the man to heel. “The Seeker is otherwise occupied.”

The noble, completely dwarfed by the towering Vashoth, whimpers as he scrambles away, finding refuge closer to those of his ilk. Adaar finds the Seeker's back with her own hand;

“Did I do well?”

“I have been propositioned twice,” Cassandra says, scowling. “Next time, come sooner.”

Another trademark smirk; “You usually do.”

Cassandra knows. She must maintain appearances for a little while longer. She can barely ignore the expression that had spread across Adaar's face, however. The _either-I'm-going-to-fight-a-dragon-or-I'm-going-to-fuck-you_ look.

She deflects; “Josephine ordered the little cakes you like. What are they called? Black Death?”

“Exquisite Misery,” she says, her expression unchanged.

"They taste as bad as I remember," Cassandra replies, pretending as though a heated desire had not suddenly spread between her legs.

Another noble takes, she thinks, a few steps closer to the pair, and Cassandra does not know who it is he might approach. She does not know which option she would have hated more. She pulls Adaar around the corner, into her private quarters, before the noble can take another step. Adaar falls a pace back, and it isn't until she makes her way into her room itself does she know why. She smiles to herself.

The woman still yet insists on purchasing the “most romantic” candles in all of Thedas.

“There was a moment after the orb exploded… I thought for sure you were dead.” Cassandra steadies her voice. “I prayed. ' _Don't take her from me. Not after all we've been through._ ' And then I saw you through the smoke. Sometimes the Maker is kind.”

Adaar holds her.

They will be pulled into different directions, but for now they can steal a moment. It is not only enough. It is more.

 

**HALAMSHIRAL**

Cassandra nearly screams in surprise. Or shrieks. Or squeals. Regardless, it is an entirely undignified noise.

Adaar smiles, glad (for once) to have finally arrived in Val Royeaux. “Are you all right?”

She has missed this. Cassandra and all her _reactions_. Although, she had expected she would have needed to poke and prod at the Seeker a little more. Not enough dragons and demons lately. Certainly not enough Cassandra.

“Yes!” the Seeker says, surprise still yet tinging her voice. “Well, I wanted to speak with you. And now you're here.”

“Should I leave and come back later so you can try again?”

“Always with the clever suggestions.” Cassandra tries to relax, Adaar's quip only barely helping. “Maybe you should sit.”

“I'll stand…”

“Maybe _I_ should sit.” She has been more calm facing darkspawn and pride demons. “The last three years have been a joy. I cannot have asked for more love or a better friend.” Yes, she decides. She would rather fight hurlocks and genlocks tooth and nail. “But to take such a drastic step? Despite all the consequences, or how it could appear?”

“Yes. Of course. I agree?”

An exasperated noise burst forth: “I'm talking about marriage!”

“ _Marriage_?”

“Yes, marriage! You're here to propose, are you not?”

Adaar stares blankly at the Seeker. _Marriage. With rings. And dresses. And cakes. Marriage? Marriage. It would be interesting to see Cassandra in a dress. Would she wear a dress?_

“You're not here to propose.” Cassandra's brow furrows as she stands, and she begins to pace back and forth across the balcony. “I am going to kill Varric. Why do I believe everything he says? _Why_?”

“Divine Victoria did say you're not allowed to interrogate anyone anymore.”

“Ugh. _Cassandra_ ,” she mimics in what has to be the worst impression of an Orlesian accent, “ _you cannot simply hit the problem or put knives through books. Sometimes a gentle touch is required._ ” She turns back towards Adaar who she knows has become completely enamored with the display. “And Varric, that terrible little... stump! He did this on purpose. That dwarf gets entirely too much joy from my discomfort.”

“I can pick him up and toss him around again. I know you like it when I do that.”

“That will not be necessary.” A smile, at last, touches Cassandra's face.

“Now that you've brought it up, maybe we _should_ get married.”

“One day. But it will be a truly romantic proposal, and I will act very surprised.”

Adaar hums as she leans into the Seeker. “My teacher _has_ missed our last few lessons.”

“It seems, then, we will have to rectify this,” she says, and she smiles but it she _feels_ it again. The same sensation she felt at the Temple of Mythal… when she had thought Adaar would not open her eyes. “What comes next – whatever happens here – will not be easy for either of us. But you do not have to fight for me. I am not going anywhere, not even if the maker himself tries to stop me. Believe that. That… is all I meant to say.”

Adaar bends her neck, nuzzling her face into the smaller woman's shoulder. She kisses bare skin, ignoring the Seeker's half-hearted attempts at protest.

She stops, for a moment, giving Cassandra pause:

“Cassandra?”

“What is it?”

“Can you say that again? I forgot to take notes.”

 

**THE CROSSROADS**

Adaar has only just stepped through the mirror when she screams out, doubling over and clutching her marked hand. _Blinding light, pain shooting, can't see, but_ – Cassandra falls to her side.

“ _Inquisitor!_ ”

“Don't worry,” Adaar says as she flashes a smile. A placating smile. “Everything's fine.”

“Do not attempt to brush me off as you do others. I am not simply anybody else.” She grabs Adaar's hand, scowling as the Vashoth attempts to pull away. “The anchor. It has not done this since--”

“--since the day we met. I remember.”

“ _Ugh._ Now is hardly the time.”

“I know, kadan,” she says as though they were not sitting atop a floating rock surrounded by a maze of mirrors. “But I haven't seen you in months.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I've got it under control,” she stands. Flashes yet another placating smile. “Let's just figure out what's going on here.”

There is a potential Qunari invasion plot, after all, and assassinations to boot. Too much to do now. Everything else can come later.

 

**HALAMSHIRAL**

Vivienne was hardly the right person for the job. Cullen, in hiding from Val Royeaux's many eligible bachlorettes (and a few bachelors, at that), simply could not be found. The Iron Bull was… otherwise occupied with a “secret” Tevinter ambassador (presumably in the coat closet on the second floor). Varric _would_ have been ideal… had the Inquisitor not dragged him through the Eluvian.

So Josephine enlists Cassandra.

Leaving the Seeker to step into the unusually empty tavern.

“She has driven _all_ the patrons away,” Josephine had said, mortified. “I cannot… She is _drunk_ and there have been _complaints._ This situation must be contained.”

Cassandra, of course, had obected; “I do not think--”

“-- _The situation must be contained_.”

Cassandra hadn't known she could be so frightened or startled by the ambassador.

“It's bad, yeah?” Sera says, slurring. Her leg shakes. Up and down and up and down and up and down. The table shakes, too. “Very bad.” Up and down and up and down. “You were gone awhile. It's been getting worse.”

Cassandra becomes quiet. “She did not tell me.”

“Well, of course not, you git. She's not worried about it, so someone has to be for her. _You_ should be worried.” Sera. She looks as though… As though she might cry.

Cassandra finds herself… unprepared. Unarmed.

“I told Widdle. She's smart. Like proper smart. I figure, _she'll sort it_. _She'll know what to do_. She didn't, though, then Quizzie had a new sword made. Thought we wouldn't notice. She swings it different.”

She _is_ crying. Little tears that she rubs violently away with the meat of her palms before they can fall.

“We baked cookies together, but the cookies were shite so we sat on a roof and chucked them. She listened. Like she wanted to learn. _Really_ wanted to learn. Nobody ever asks. Or listens. S'not right. Do everything for everyone. Not right.”

Cassandra flinches as Sera stares up at the Seeker, almost accusingly:

“She's dying, isn't she? On the inside.”

“I…” Her fists clench. “I will not allow it. I will not lose her.”

“ _No_  not for you to decide because I can't put arrows in it and you can't very well punch it, can you?” Sera tugs at her little journal. “Make her happy. You should do that. Not much time left, is there? You nobs think I can't see it, but I can. So you, go. Make her happy. You can keep that.”

 

**THE DEEP ROADS**

Varric did not like many things. Caves. The outdoors. Orlesian cafes. Taverns that are too tidy. Slopes of greater than ten degrees. Uneven ground. The dark. Rain (make that water in general). And orlesians. Fereldans. Neverrans. Mages. Templars. The entire Merchant's Guild.

Nugs.

He most certainly did not like the Deep Roads, so why, by Andraste's singular Blighted tit, did the Inquisitor _continue_ to take him to the Deep Roads? Every time! Oh, there's darkspawn! _Let's take Varric_. Oh, a lyrium mine is collapsing! _Let's take Varric._ Oh, there's an ancient Titan beneath the lyrium mine! _Let's take Varric!_

Now this. A damn Eluvian mirror. Leading to the damn Deep Roads. Damn Deep Roads, damn deepstalkers, damn Qunari. Damn them all.

He's a surface dwarf, for Andraste's sake.

He was sure; the Inquisitor did this to _spite_ him.

“So. About your hand."

“It's fine,” Adaar grunts in a spectacularly Qunari (yes, he knows – _Vashoth_ ) fashion.

“Right. And I shit golden nugs,” Varric says. “Hawke does the same thing, you know. She pretends like everything is just fine and dandy when it's not.”

“Everything _is_ fine.”

“You'd be more convincing if you weren't using your arm as a torch.”

“I have to light up this cave. It's hard enough _not_ tripping over you.”

Varric sighs. As long as she's not picking me up and literally chucking me at darkspawn…

“You're deflecting, but there's a reason why you left the ever-cheery Seeker behind.” Varric smiles, his words reaching for, and striking, a nerve. “You don't want her to see you like this.”

Adaar grunts.

“I don't do tragedies,” he says. “You better not make it one.”

The hand flashes again. Spreads. They both pretend not to notice.

“I have words for you, you know.” Adaar looks as though she _actually_ might throw him at deepstalkers. Or Qunari. Or that giant pit. “You told Cassandra I was going to propose.”

“I _hinted_. She assumed.”

She's silent for a moment. “…I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“Step one: _don't die_.”

Nothing good ever happens in the Deep Roads. First Betrand and that Blighted red lyrium idol. Then Bethany…

Well, shit.

 

**HALAMSHIRAL**

When she sees her, returning from her latest journey through the mirrors, she grabs her by the thick wool of her uniform, and she pulls her close, burying her face into the jacket, not caring for a moment who might see. Those Orlesian nobles can fall over their inadequate ceremonial swords for all it matters.

“Do not say a word,” she whispers, into the wool.

They stand together, silent, and she can feel Adaar's arms wrap around her.

She closes her eyes. She can feel the steady pulse, too. A heartbeat. The steady inhale and exhale of oxygen through the woman's lungs. Her hands slide over gray skin, over Adaar's hand. Her own breath stumbles as her fingers find the mark. The wool jacket becomes damp, ever so slightly beneath Cassandra's eyes, but even still, neither utters a single noise. Neither will ever speak of it again.

Because _i_ _t_ is overwhelming, and Adaar can feel _it_ radiating from Cassandra's skin.

The dread.

“Do not leave me here again, either.”

 

**THE DARVAARAD**

Adaar looks up and watches as the Saarebas swings and smashes and roars, primal rage spilling from his every pore. “They're so large.”

“I know,” the Iron Bull says, and the same expression of awe is mirrored across his face, and his voice his quiet. As though a wave of Qunari soldiers had not just arrived to kill them.

“How do you think they got like that?”

Consideration seeps into the Iron Bull's voice. “The lyrium…”

“We could…” Adaar swings her sword. “Do you think…?”

“Not if we ask.”

Cassandra momentarily panics. “ _No._ ”

“But--” Adaar starts.

“No.”

“Please?”

The Seeker sighs, rolling her eyes. “I like you the way you are.”

“Aw.” The Iron Bull is positively beside himself. “That's adorable.”

 

**THE CROSSROADS**

The mark has spread, and the magic pulses through the scar and up Adaar's arm, crackling and hissing and shivering. She holds her lips tight together as she attempts to stifle a gasp of pain. She blinks, hard and fast. Not yet. One more mirror. Almost done. Stop the Qunari. Save Solas.

Cassandra examines the Anchor again, forcing Adaar to slow her steps. “There must be something we can do. If this keeps up, it will kill you.”

But Adaar blinks again; it has all become… blurred. Darkness tingues the edges of her vision. Tunnels. Spots. Falling away. She wraps her fingers around Cassandra's hands, pulling the core of the mark away from view. It will not be long before the magic will spill from her skin once more; it will not be long before Cassandra is torn away.

“Whatever happens,” she says, “I wouldn't trade the years we've had together for anything.”

“No. Stop it. You _will_ stay with me.”

“Cassandra.” She brings her hand to her chest. It is cheesy and romantic and it may have very well been pulled from one of Cassandra's books. The Seeker's words catch on the walls of her throat as Adaar continues. “Thank you. For everything you've done for me. I have never known… I have never thought I could have this. I--”

“--I know. And I you. Forever and always, my love.”

Adaar glances towards the mirror as she releases Cassandra's hand. It is time now. To stop the Qunari invasion. To go after Solas.

“Don't worry,” she whispers. “I am not afraid.”

She disappears through the mirror as Cassandra's arms fall to her sides.

 

**ELVEN RUINS**

Solas turns his back as the Qunari are turned to stone. Adaar stumbles towards him, struggling to blink the darkness out of her eyes. Struggling to hold on for just a moment longer.

“The legends are half-right,” Solas says. “We were immortal. It was not the arrival of humans that caused us to begin aging. It was me. The Veil took from everything from them elves, even themselves.” He strides towards her and looks down upon the fallen Vashoth. “Had I not created the Veil, the Evanuris, these false-gods, would have destroyed the entire world.”

“That's the past. _Dull_. _Get on with_ _it._ What about the future?”

“I laid in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you. My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the Elven people. I will tear down the Veil. Even if it means _this_ world must die.”

“You'd murder countless people.”

Solas stares at her, accusation dancing across his lips; “Wouldn't you to save your own? To save _her_? Haven't you?”

“Just checking for a conscience. I'm told most people have one.”

“Your attempts at wit fail to impress,” he says, shaking his head “You must understand. I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked most people's conscious c connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”

“You must have found me especially dull, then.”

“The fault is hardly yours. The Veil was my creation, another of my countless mistakes. The way your people pander with the unknown as a result… it has led to what has been wrought upon you.”

“I like the way I am.”

“Then you are a fool. A child.”

She laughs; out loud and sharp and rough; “No. _You_ are a child, clamoring for what once was. Your words are tired, Solas. Corypheus has already worn them. They fell short after I killed him.” Adaar stares up, ever defiant through the pain. “You find silence in this world. I think it is that you do not listen.”

“I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again,” Solas says, and for a moment, for a single moment, Adaar can nearly sense the brief tint doubt in his voice. “But even you cannot change the truth. You have fooled those around you into believing there is _music_ where there is none. You have fooled them into believing you are something you are not, and in the process you might have even fooled yourself. It is remarkable, yes, but do not delude yourself. One day, she _will_ learn, and you will all know that my actions are only for the best.”

She trembles. She cannot see. Cannot feel. Only the Anchor. Ripping through her.

“Ultimately, none could have borne the mark but me. Still, your death would cause more senseless chaos, more bloodshed. It is unnecessary. Though I doubt you will thank me.”

He grabs her arm, pulsing his own magic through her, petrifying the bone and muscle and skin of her arm.

“Live well, while time remains,” he says, and he turns away. “She _will_ learn, Inquisitor, that you are a fool.”


	2. The Fool

_**Listen:** _

“What is this? Ah. A new book. ' _All This Shit is Weird_.' Oh, Varric. That is a _terrible_ title. What are you even thinking?”

( _Her voice. It's like music. First music. Awkward music. But it is music all the same, and it is breathtaking._ )

“The sky churned like a rolling sea on a dark and stormy night, centered on a gaping hole that led to the ass-end of nowhere. A whole that spit up many things that day: comets, demons… and a whole lot of trouble.” _A gasp_. “It's about the Inquisition!”

( _Nothingness for so long._ _Blank. Quiet._ _Only dull and muted tones. Only brief wisps of_ _the shadows of_ _colo_ _r. Only a singular monotone sound. One note. Ever present. Ever unchanged. Like a fly buzzing ceaselessly above an ear. Not a song. But she is a song. Uniquely bright against the darkness._ )

“The din of the tavern cut the silence like it owed the Carta money. In the middle. In her element, Red Jenny. She looked me up and down – mostly down.

'Not playing, weirdy,' she said, gesturing with, and dismissively eating, a sandwich. 'Don't write that. Seriously. Piss up a rope.'

“Sera made the subtext text, which suited me fine.”

( _Awkward. Imperfect. But imperfect is good. Exciting. A beautiful storm beating ceaselessly against the night sky._ )

“The Court Enchanter swirled into the room like a drop of beautiful poison spreading in a wine glass. She sized me up with a glance. 'I'm so glad you made it, my dear,' she said. 'I am Madame de Fer, the most terrifying person you shall ever meet.'”

( _Oh, Cassandra. That is the worst impression ever._ )

“Leliana enfolded Alphonse in an embrace as warm as a serpent’s kiss. 'I always knew I could count on your support' The count did not feel the bite of her poisoned dart until it was too late. 'Even if it requires… your death.'”

( _That was… Not much better._ )

“Drops of rain glistened on the griffon medallion grasped tightly in Blackwall's hand. 'The silverite wings of valor. They mean nothing.' He flung the medal to the cold and uncaring ground. 'You don't know what I've done. You. Don't. Know. Me.” _A cheeky sigh_. “So romantic.”

( _Is it now? Must remember it for later._ )

“Cole moved like a shadow that also moved like a knife, a shadow wearing a hat where dreams came to die. 'It's a riddle,' he whispered. 'A cold riddle that gnaws at your mind. But you'll feel better when it's gone.'” _She pauses for a moment. Considers._ “That… makes as much sense as anything Cole says.”

( _She smells like rose petals. Warm. Sweet._ )

“'Do you place your Herald above the law, Ambassador?'

'Whose law, my lady?' Josephine's eyes glittered like angry opals. 'The law destroyed by rebellion? By civil war? By poor fiscal management? We are the law!'”

( _Her voice, playful. Must bring it out in her again. Would like to see her face, too. Would like to see the way her face dances with the music_.)

“We left our mark on Adamant, but the dust hadn't settled… And neither had Harding.

'I can offer you a drink. If I catch your meaning.'

'If you'd caught my meaning, you'd have offered me a double.'”

( _Can almost hear it. The way she pinches her brow together. The little knot._ )

“What is even happening here?”

( _Delightful_.)

“The Iron Bull was a great slab of muscle with horns that could hang a tapestry. One eye scanned for threats, while the other hid behind an eye patch like a Chantry sister's old sins. 'Come on,' he barked, not looking back as he entered, 'the dancer with the great rack comes on in five.'” _A short beat._ “That is… spot on, actually.”

( _Even you cannot change the truth. You have fooled those around you into believing there is music where there is none. You have fooled them into believing that you are something you are not, nad in the process you might have even fooled yourself._ )

“The Commander had the look of a Templar who had seen the worst of humanity, yet still had the time to style his hair. 'This isn't just a war,' he said, his gaze steely like a dull blade. 'It's the only war.'” _Surprise. Joy. Delight. Notes that pull the words into a crescendo_ ; “Cullen! That's Cullen!”

( _Listen to her. Hold on to her. But_ his _voice echoes, too:_ _One day, she will learn_.)

“The mage wore a class of handsome sneer cultivated by a thousand years of Tevinter elitism. 'The name's Dorian' he glared. 'D-O-R-I-A-N. Spell it right, you marble-headed lump, or it's… toad time.'” _She rolls her eyes_. “A toad? That's hardly credible.”

( _She will learn, Inquisitor, that you are a fool._ )

“The bald elf spun, mage staff crackling like the city after a good man's murder.”

( _She stops for a moment. Fiddles with the sheets. Her hand trembles as she runs her thumb over the scar. She brings herself, finally, to continue._ )

“'You're crazy!' the Red Templar cried in terror.

“Moonlight glinted off ears like the knives you never see coming. 'Better to _fade_ out than burn away.'” _A disgusted noise, but a_ _relaxed_ _smile, too_ : “Ugh. Varric.”

( _I have never thought I could have this_.)

“Wait. Where am _I_? I don't… Oh. Here it is:

“The Seeker clutched at my vest, her tears as desperate as they were pitiful. 'Varric, I was wrong about everything,' she sobbed. 'Could you find it in your noble heart to forgive me?'”

( _Uh oh._ )

“That dwarf, he… he… He put me in the book!” _A… giggle? A laugh. Mirth. The final beat to the song._ “I'm in the book! I'm reading the shit out of this!”

“Do that again.” Her voice is weak as she attempts to reach Cassandra with her words “Laugh.”

“Adaar? You're awake!”

“I can go back to sleep if you'd like.”

“No, I… How long have you been up?”

“Long enough to hear your impression of Madame de Fer.”

She blushes. “Oh.”

The Orlesian drapes are thick and grand and laden with silken tassles. They flow and flit with the cool air. Their are grapes on the counter. Figs, peaches, and brandy. A stack of little cakes. Flowers (presumably from Josephine). A dragon's skull (definitely from Bull). A crossbow. Dagna's make.

“How long has it been?”

“You told us what happened after you stepped out of the mirror. About Solas. Then, you… collapsed.” She speaks calmly but her fingers continue to grasp Adaar's shirt. Tense. Tight. “Two days.”

“I assume the Exalted Council will want to speak to me.”

“Yes, but…” For the first time she stutters. As though she might be ashamed. “Are you not going to ask?”

“About what?”

“It was clear that Solas… must have done something to you,” she says. Her hands slide, finding the space Adaar's arm would have been. “We were forced to remove the mark.”

“Oh, yes. Good. I thought for a moment that I misplaced it. That would have been less than ideal.”

She smiles. _Giggles._ Brushes her thumb against the scar again, against the stump. “Does it hurt?”

“It's itchy. Nothing a tub of horn balm won't fix.” She brings her still-yet-attached hand to Cassandra's cheek. Kisses her as another giggle leaves her lips. “You keep doing that. Laughing.”

“You are alive.”

“You're happy.”

“Yes,” she says and she laughs again too, her smile wide across her face. “Foolishly so.”

( _I am not afraid, kadan._ _I love you_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks.
> 
> The next story will be far more substantial in content and plot, but I hope (in the meantime) this little story has provided an enjoyable read.
> 
> Look forward to more!


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